FOOTNOTES:
[35] This jovial old colonist is referred to in the T. M. account of the Rebellion.
CHAPTER XVII.
“And first she pitched her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the king,
And then around the silent ring,
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by yea and nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play.”
Marmion.
“How did you like Major Presley's song?” said Bernard to Virginia, as he leaned gracefully over her chair, and played carelessly with the young girl's fan.
“Frankly, Mr. Bernard,” she replied, “not at all. There was only one thing which seemed to me appropriate in the exhibition.”
“And what was that?”
“The coarse language and sentiment of the song comported well with the singer.”
“Oh, really, Miss Temple,” returned Bernard, “you are too harsh in your criticism. It is not fair to reduce the habits and manners of others to your own purer standard of excellence, any more than to censure the scanty dress of your friend Mamalis, which, however picturesque in itself, would scarcely become the person of one of these fair ladies here.”
“And yet,” said Virginia, blushing crimson at the allusion, “there can be no other standard by which I at least can be governed, than that established by my own taste and judgment. You merely asked me my opinion of Major Presley's performance; others, it is true, may differ with me, but their decisions can scarcely affect my own.”
“The fact that there is such a wide variance in the taste of individuals,” argued Bernard, “should, however, make us cautious of condemning that which may be sustained by the judgment of so many. Did you know, by the way, Miss Virginia, that 'habit' and 'custom' are essentially the same words as 'habit' and 'costume.' This fact—for the history of a nation may almost be read in the history of its language—should convince you that the manners and customs of a people are as changeable as the fashions of their dress.”
“I grant you,” said Virginia, “that the mere manners of a people may change in many respects; but true taste, when founded on a true appreciation of right, can never change.”
“Why, yes it can,” replied her companion, who delighted in bringing the young girl out, as he said, and plying her with specious sophisms. “Beauty, certainly, is an absolute and not a relative emotion, and yet what is more changeable than a taste in beauty. The Chinese bard will write a sonnet on the oblique eyes, flat nose and club feet of his saffron Amaryllis, while he would revolt with horror from the fair features of a British lassie. Old Uncle Giles will tell you that the negro of his Congo coast paints his Obi devil white, in order to inspire terror in the hearts of the wayward little Eboes. The wild Indians of Virginia dye their cheeks—”
“Nay, there you will not find so great a difference between us,” said Virginia, interrupting him, as she pointed to the plastered rouge on Bernard's cheek. “But really, Mr. Bernard, you can scarcely be serious in an opinion so learnedly argued. You must acknowledge that right and wrong are absolute terms, and that a sense of them is inherent in our nature.”
“Well then, seriously, my dear Miss Temple,” replied Bernard, “I do not see so much objection to the gay society of England, which is but a reflection from the mirror of the court of Charles the Second.”
“When the mirror is stained or imperfect, Mr. Bernard, the image that it reflects must be distorted too. That society which breaks down the barriers that a refined sentiment has erected between the sexes, can never develope in its highest perfection the purity of the human heart.”
“Well, I give up the argument,” said Bernard, “for where sentiment is alone concerned, there is no more powerful advocate than woman. But, my dear Miss Temple, you who have such a pure and correct taste on this subject, can surely illustrate your own idea by an example. Will you not sing? I know you can—your mother told me so.”
“You must excuse me, Mr. Bernard; I would willingly oblige you, but I fear I could not trust my voice among so many strangers.”
“You mistake your own powers,” urged Bernard. “There is nothing easier, believe me, after the first few notes of the voice, which sound strangely enough I confess, than for any one to recover self-possession entirely. I well remember the first time I attempted to speak before a large audience. When I arose to my feet, my knees trembled, and my lips actually felt heavy as lead. It seemed as though every drop of blood in my system rushed back to my heart. The vast crowd before me was nothing but an immense assemblage of eyes, all bent with the most burning power upon me; and when at length I opened my mouth, and first heard the tones of my own voice, it sounded strange and foreign to my ear. It seemed as though it was somebody else, myself and yet not myself, who was speaking; and my utterance was so choked and discordant, that I would have given worlds if I could draw back the words that escaped me. But after a half dozen sentences, I became perfectly composed and self-possessed, and cared no more for the gaping crowd than for the idle wind which I heed not. So it will be with your singing, but rest assured that the discord of your voice will only exist in your own fancy. Now will you oblige me?”
“Indeed, Mr. Bernard, I cannot say that you have offered much inducement,” said Virginia, laughing at the young man's description of his forensic debut. “Nothing but the strongest sense of duty would impel me to pass through such an ordeal as that which you have described. Seriously you must excuse me. I cannot sing.”
“Oh yes you can, my dear,” said her mother, who was standing near, and heard the latter part of the conversation. “What's the use of being so affected about it! You know you can sing, my dear—and I like to see young people obliging.”
“That's right, Mrs. Temple,” said Bernard, “help me to urge my petition; I don't think Miss Virginia can be disobedient, even if it were in her power to be disobliging.”
“The fact is, Mr. Bernard,” said the old lady, “that the young people of the present day require so much persuading, that its hardly worth the trouble to get them to do any thing.”
“Well, mother, if you put it on that ground,” said Virginia, “I suppose I must waive my objections and oblige you.”
So saying, she rose, and taking Bernard's arm, she seated herself at Lady Frances' splendid harp, which was sent from England as a present by her brother-in-law, Lord Berkeley. Drawing off her white gloves, and running her little tapering fingers over the strings, Virginia played a melancholy symphony, which accorded well with the sad words that came more sadly on the ear through the medium of her plaintive voice:—
“Fondly they loved, and her trusting heart
With the hopes of the future bounded,
Till the trumpet of Freedom condemned them to part,
And the knell of their happiness sounded.
“But his is a churl's and a traitor's choice,
Who, deaf to the call of duty,
Would linger, allured by a syren's voice,
On the Circean island of beauty.
“His country called! he had heard the sound,
And kissed the pale cheek of the maiden,
Then staunched with his blood his country's wound,
And ascended in glory to Aidenn.
“The shout of victory lulled him to sleep
The slumber that knows no dreaming,
But a martyr's reward he will proudly reap,
In the grateful tears of Freemen.
“And long shall the maidens remember her love,
And heroes shall dwell on his story;
She died in her constancy like the lone dove,
But he like an eagle in glory.
“Oh let the dark cypress mourn over her grave,
And light rest the green turf upon her;
While over his ashes the laurel shall wave,
For he sleeps in the proud bed of honour.”
The reader need not be told that this simple little ballad derived new beauty from the feeling with which Virginia sang it. The remote connection of its story with her own love imparted additional sadness to her sweet voice, and as she dwelt on the last line, her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled. Bernard marked the effect which had been produced, and a thrill of jealousy shot through his heart at seeing this new evidence of the young girl's constancy.
But while he better understood her feelings than others around her, all admired the plaintive manner in which she had rendered the sentiment of the song, and attributed her emotion to her own refined appreciation and taste. Many were the compliments which were paid to the fair young minstrel by old and young; by simpering beaux and generous maidens. Sir William Berkeley, himself, gallantly kissed her cheek, and said that Lady Frances might well be jealous of so fair a rival; and added, that if he were only young again, Windsor Hall might be called upon to yield its fair inmate to adorn the palace of the Governor of Virginia.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Give me more love or more disdain,
The torrid or the frozen zone;
Bring equal ease unto my pain,
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.”—Thomas Carew.
While Virginia thus received the meed of merited applause at the hands of all who were truly generous, there were some then, as there are many now, in whose narrow and sterile hearts the success of another is ever a sufficient incentive to envy and depreciation. Among these was a young lady, who had hitherto been the especial favourite of Alfred Bernard, and to whom his attentions had been unremittingly paid. This young lady, Miss Matilda Bray, the daughter of one of the councillors, vented her spleen and jealousy in terms to the following purport, in a conversation with the amiable and accomplished Caroline Ballard.
“Did you ever, Caroline, see any thing so forward as that Miss Temple?”
“I am under a different impression,” replied her companion. “I was touched by the diffidence and modesty of her demeanor.”
“I don't know what you call diffidence and modesty; screeching here at the top of her voice and drowning every body's conversation. Do you think, for instance, that you or I would presume to sing in as large a company as this—with every body gazing at us like a show.”
“No, my dear Matilda, I don't think that we would. First, because no one would be mad enough to ask us; and, secondly, because if we did presume, every body would be stopping their ears, instead of admiring us with their eyes.”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted Matilda. “I still hold to my opinion, that it was impertinent to be stopping other people's enjoyment to listen to her.”
“On the contrary, I thought it a most welcome interruption, and I believe that most of the guests, as well as Sir William Berkeley, himself, concurred with me in opinion.”
“Well, I never saw any body so spiteful as you've grown lately, Caroline. There's no standing you. I suppose you will say next that this country girl is beautiful too, with her cotton head and blue china eyes.”
“I am a country girl myself, Matilda,” returned Caroline, “and as for the beauty of Miss Temple, whatever I may think, I believe that our friend, Mr. Bernard, is of that opinion.”
“Oh, you needn't think, with your provoking laugh,” said Miss Bray, “that I care a fig for Mr. Bernard's attention to her.”
“I didn't say so.”
“No, but you thought so, and you know you did; and what's more, it's too bad that you should take such a delight in provoking me. I believe it's all jealousy at last.”
“Jealousy, my dear Matilda,” said her companion, “is a jaundiced jade, that thinks every object is of its own yellow colour. But see, the dance is about to commence again, and here comes my partner. You must excuse me.” And with a smile of conscious beauty, Caroline Ballard gave her hand to the handsome young gallant who approached her.
Bernard and Virginia, too, rose from their seats, but, to the surprise of Matilda Bray, they did not take their places in the dance, but walked towards the door. Bernard saw how his old flame was writhing with jealousy, and as he passed her he said, maliciously,
“Good evening, Miss Matilda; I hope you are enjoying the ball.”
“Oh, thank you, exceedingly,” said Miss Bray, patting her foot hysterically on the floor, and darting from her fine black eyes an angry glance, which gave the lie to her words.
Leaving her to digest her spleen at her leisure, the handsome pair passed out of the ball-room and into the lawn. It was already thronged with merry, laughing young people, who, wearied with dancing, were promenading through the gravelled walks, or sitting on the rural benches, arranged under the spreading trees.
“Oh, this is really refreshing,” said the young girl, as she smoothed back her tresses from her brow, to enjoy the delicious river breeze. “Those rooms were very oppressive.”
“I scarcely found them so,” said Bernard, gallantly; “for when the mind is agreeably occupied we soon learn to forget any inconvenience to which the body may be subjected. But I knew you would enjoy a walk through this fine lawn.”
“Oh, indeed I do; and truly, Mr. Bernard,” said the ingenuous girl, “I have much to thank you for. Nearly a stranger in Jamestown, you have made my time pass happily away, though I fear you have deprived yourself of the society of others far more agreeable.”
“My dear Miss Temple, I will not disguise from you, even to retain your good opinion of my generosity, the fact that my attention has not been so disinterested as you suppose.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Virginia, “for the compliment; but I am afraid that I have not been so agreeable, in return for your civility, as I should. You were witness to a scene, Mr. Bernard, which would make it useless to deny that I have much reason to be sad; and it makes me more unhappy to think that I may affect others by my gloom.”
“I know to what you allude,” replied Bernard, “and believe me, fair girl, sweeter to me is this sorrow in your young heart, than all the gaudy glitter of those vain children of fashion whom we have left. But, alas! I myself have much cause to be sad—the future looms darkly before me, and I see but little left in life to make it long desirable.”
“Oh, say not so,” said Virginia, moved by the air of deep melancholy which Bernard had assumed, but mistaking its cause. “You are young yet, and the future should be bright. You have talents, acquirements, everything to ensure success; and the patronage and counsel of Sir William Berkeley will guide you in the path to honourable distinction. Fear not, my friend, but trust hopefully in the future.”
“There is one thing, alas!” said Bernard, in the same melancholy tone, “without which success itself would scarcely be desirable.”
“And what is that?” said the young girl, artlessly. “Believe me, you will always find in me, Mr. Bernard, a warm friend, and a willing if not an able counsellor.”
“But this is not all,” cried Bernard, passionately. “Does not your own heart tell you that there must be something more than friendship to satisfy the longings of a true heart? Oh, Virginia—yes, permit me to call you by a name now doubly dear to me, as the home of my adoption and as the object of my earnest love. Dearest Virginia, sweet though it be to the heart of a lonely orphan, drifting like a sailless vessel in this rugged world, to have such a friend, yet sweeter far would it be to live in the sunlight of your love.”
“Mr. Bernard!” exclaimed Virginia, with unfeigned surprise.
“Nay, dearest, do you, can you wonder at this revelation? I had striven, but in vain, to conceal a hope which I knew was too daring. Oh, do not by a word destroy the faint ray which has struggled so bravely in my heart.”
“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, as she withdrew her arm from his, “I can no longer permit this. If your feelings be such as you profess, and as I believe they are—for I know your nature to be honorable—I regret that I can only respect a sentiment which I can never return.”
“Oh, say not thus, my own Virginia, just as a new life begins to dawn upon me. At least be not so hasty in a sentence which seals my fate forever.”
“I am not too hasty,” replied Virginia. “But I would think myself unworthy of the love you have expressed, if I held out hopes which can never be realized. You know my position is a peculiar one. My hand but not my heart is disengaged. Nor could you respect the love of a woman who could so soon forget one with whom she had promised to unite her destiny through life. I have spoken thus freely, Mr. Bernard, because I think it due to your feelings, and because I am assured that what I say is entrusted to an honourable man.”
“Indeed, my dear Miss Temple, if such you can only be to me,” said her wily lover, “I do respect from my heart your constancy to your first love. That unwavering devotion to another, whom I esteem, because he is loved by you, only makes you more worthy to be won. May I not still hope that time may supply the niche, made vacant in your heart, by another whose whole life shall be devoted to the one object of making you happy?”
“Mr. Bernard, candour compels me to say no, my friend; there are vows which even time, with its destroying hand can never erase, and which are rendered stronger and more sacred by the very circumstances which prevent their accomplishment. Fate, my friend, may interpose her stern decree and forever separate me from the presence of Mr. Hansford, but my heart is still unchangeably his. Ha! what is that?” she added, with a faint scream, as from the little summer-house, which we have before described, there came a deep, prolonged groan.
As she spoke, and as Bernard laid his hand upon his sword to avenge himself upon the intruder, a dark figure issued from the door of the arbor, and stood before them. The young man stood appalled as he recognized by the uncertain light of a neighbouring lamp, the dark, swarthy features of Master Hutchinson, the chaplain of the Governor.
“Put up your sword, young man,” said the preacher, gravely; “they who use the sword shall perish by the sword.”
“In the devil's name,” cried Bernard, forgetful of the presence of Virginia, “how came you here?”
“Not to act the spy at least,” said Hutchinson, “such is not my character. Suffice it to say, that I came as you did, to enjoy this fresh air—and sought the quiet of this arbour to be free from the intrusion of others. I have lived too long to care for the frivolities which I have heard, and your secret is safe in my breast—a repository of many a darker confidence than that.” With these words the bent form of the melancholy preacher passed out of their sight.
“A singular man,” said Bernard, in a troubled voice, “but entirely innocent in his conduct. An abstracted book-worm, he moves through the world like a stranger in it. Will you return now?”
“Thank you,” said Virginia, “most willingly—for I confess my nerves are a little unstrung by the fright I received. And now, my friend, pardon me for referring to what has passed, but you will still be my friend, won't you?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Bernard, in an abstracted manner. “I wonder,” he muttered “what he could have meant by that hideous groan?”
And sadly and silently the rejected lover and his unhappy companion returned to the heartless throng, who still lit up the palace with their hollow smiles.
Alike the joyous dance, the light mirth, and the splendid entertainment passed unheeded by Virginia, as she sat silently abstracted, and returned indifferent answers to the questions which were asked her. And Bernard, the gay and fascinating Bernard, wandered through the crowd, like a troubled spectre, and ever and anon muttered to himself, “I wonder what he could have meant by that hideous groan?”
CHAPTER XIX.
“His heart has not half uttered itself yet,
And much remains to do as well as they.
The heart is sometime ere it finds its focus,
And when it does with the whole light of nature
Strained through it to a hair's breadth, it but burns
The things beneath it which it lights to death.”
Festus.
And now the ball is over. Mothers wait impatiently for their fair daughters, who are having those many last words so delightful to them, and so provoking to those who await their departure. Carriages again drive to the door, and receive their laughing, bright-eyed burdens, and then roll away through the green lawn, while the lamps throw their broad, dark shadows on the grass. Gay young cavaliers, who have come from a distance to the ball, exchange their slippers for their heavy riding-boots and spurs, and mount their pawing and impatient steeds. Sober-sided old statesmen walk away arm-in-arm, and discuss earnestly the business of the morrow. The gamesters and dicers depart, some with cheerful smiles, chuckling over their gains, and others with empty pockets, complaining how early the party had broken up, and proposing a renewal of the game the next night at the Blue Chamber at the Garter Inn. Old Presley has evidently, to use his own phrase, “got his load,” and waddling away to his quarters, he winks his eye mischievously at the lamps, which, under the multiplying power of his optics, have become more in number than the stars. Thus the guests all pass away, and the lights which flit for a few moments from casement to casement in the palace, are one by one extinguished, and all is dark, save where one faint candle gleams through an upper window and betrays the watchfulness of the old chaplain.
And who is he, with his dark, melancholy eyes, which tell so plainly of the chastened heart—he who seeming so gentle and kind to all, reserves his sternness for himself alone—and who, living in love with all God's creatures, seems to hate with bitterness his own nature? It was not then as it is sometimes now, that every man's antecedents were inquired into and known, and that the young coxcomb, who disgraces the name that he bears and the lineage of which he boasts, is awarded a higher station in society than the self-sustaining and worthy son of toil, who builds his reputation on the firmer foundation of substantial worth. Every ship brought new emigrants from England, who had come to share the fate and to develope the destiny of the new colony, and who immediately assumed the position in society to which their own merit entitled them. And thus it was, that when Arthur Hutchinson came to Virginia, no one asked, though many wondered, what had blighted his heart, and cast so dark a shadow on his path. There was one man in the colony, and one alone, who had known him before—and yet Alfred Bernard, with whom he had come to Virginia, seemed to know little more of his history and his character than those to whom he was an entire stranger.
Arthur Hutchinson was in appearance about fifty years of age. His long hair, which had once been black as the raven's wing, but was now thickly sprinkled with grey, fell profusely over his stooping shoulders. There was that, too, in the deep furrows on his broad brow, and in the expression of his pale thin lips which told that time and sorrow had laid their heavy hands upon him. As has been before remarked, by the recommendation of Lord Berkeley, which had great weight with his brother, Hutchinson had been installed as Chaplain to Sir William, and through his influence with the vestry, presented to the church in Jamestown. Although, with his own private resources, the scanty provision of sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco per annum, (rated at about eighty pounds sterling,) was ample for his comfortable support, yet good Master Hutchinson had found it very convenient to accept Sir William Berkeley's invitation to make his home at the palace. Here, surrounded by his books, which he regarded more as cheerful companions, than as grim instructors, he passed his life rather in inoffensive meditation than in active usefulness. The sad and quiet reserve of his manners, which seemed to spring from the memory of some past sorrow, that while it had ceased to give pain, was still having its silent effect upon its victim, made him the object of pity to all around him. The fervid eloquence and earnestness of his sermons carried conviction to the minds of the doubting, arrested the attention of the thoughtless and the wayward, and administered the balm of consolation to the afflicted child of sorrow. The mysterious influence which he exerted over the proud spirit of Alfred Bernard, even by one reproving glance from those big, black, melancholy eyes, struck all who knew them with astonishment. He took but little interest in the political condition of the colony, or in the state of society around him, and while, by this estrangement, and his secluded life, he made but few warm friends, he made no enemies. The good people of the parish were content to let the parson pursue his own quiet life undisturbed, and he lost none of their respect, while he gained much of their regard by his refusal to make the influence of the church the weapon of political warfare.
Hutchinson, who had retired to his room some time before the guests had separated, was quietly reading from one of the old fathers, when his attention was arrested by a low tap at the door, which he at once recognized as Bernard's. At the intimation to come in, the young man entered, and throwing himself into a chair, he rested his face upon his hand, and sighed deeply.
“Alfred,” said the preacher, after watching him for a moment in silence, “I am glad you have come. I have somewhat to say to you.”
“Well, sir, I will hear you patiently. What would you say?”
“I would warn you against letting a young girl divert you from the pursuit of higher objects than are to be attained by love.”
“How, sir?” exclaimed Bernard, with surprise.
“Alfred Bernard, look at me. Read in this pale withered visage, these sunken cheeks, this bent form, and this broken heart, the brief summary of a history which cannot yet be fully known. You have seen and known that I am not as other men—that I walk through the world a stranger here, and that my home is in the dark dungeon of my own bitter thoughts. Would you know what has thus severed the chain which bound me to the world? Would you know what it is that has blighted a heart which might have borne rich fruit, and turned it to ashes? Would you know what is the vulture, too cruel to destroy, which feeds upon this doomed form?”
“In God's name, Mr. Hutchinson, why do you speak thus wildly?” said Bernard, for he had never before heard such language fall from the lips of the reserved and quiet preacher. “I know that you have had your sorrows, for the foot-prints of sorrow are indeed on you, but I have often admired the stoical philosophy with which you have borne the burden of care.”
“Stoical philosophy!” exclaimed the preacher, pressing his hand to his heart. “The name that the world has given to the fire which burns here, and whose flame is never seen. Think you the pain is less, because all the heat is concentrated in the heart, not fanned into a flame by the breath of words?”
“Well, call it what you will,” said Bernard, “and suffer as you will, but why reserve until to-night a revelation which you have so long refused to make?”
“Simply because to-night I have seen and heard that which induces me to warn you from the course that you are pursuing. Young man, beware how you seek your happiness in a woman's smile.”
“You must excuse me, my old friend,” said Bernard, smiling, “if I remind you of an old adage which teaches us that a burnt child dreads the fire. If trees were sentient, would you have them to fly from the generous rain of heaven, by which they grow, and live, and bloom, because, forsooth, one had been blasted by the lightning of the storm?”
Hutchinson only replied with a melancholy shake of the head, and the two men gazed at each other in silence. Bernard, with all his sagacity and knowledge of human nature, in vain attempted to read the secret thoughts of his old guardian, whose dark eyes, lit up for a moment with excitement, had now subsided into the pensive melancholy which we have more than once remarked. The affectionate solicitude with which he had ever treated him, prevented Bernard from being offended at his freedom, and yet, with a vexed heart, he vainly strove to solve a mystery which thus seemed to surround Virginia and himself, who, until a few days before, had been entire strangers to each other.
“Alfred Bernard,” said the old man at length, with his sweet gentle voice, “do you remember your father? You are very like him.”
“How can you ask me such a question, when you yourself have told me so often that I never saw him.”
“True, I had forgotten,” returned Hutchinson, with a sigh, “but your mother you remember?”
“Oh yes,” said the young man, with a tear starting in his eye, “I can never forget her sad, pensive countenance. I have been a wild, bad man, Mr. Hutchinson, but often in my darkest hours, the memory of my mother would come over me, as though her spirit, like a dove, was descending from her place in heaven to watch over her boy. Alas! I feel that if I had followed the precepts which she taught me, I would now be a better and a happier man.”
No heart is formed entirely hard; there are moments and memories which melt the most obdurate heart, as the wand of the prophet smote water from the rock. And Alfred Bernard, with all his cold scepticism and selfish nature, was for a moment sincerely repentant.
“I have often thought, Mr. Hutchinson,” he continued, “that if it had pleased heaven to give me some near relative on earth, around whom my heart could delight to cling, I would have been a better man. Some kind brother who could aid and sympathize with me in my struggle with the world, or some gentle sister, in whose love I could confide, and to whose sweet society I might repair from the bitter trials of this rugged life; if these had been vouchsafed me, my heart would have expanded into more sympathy with my race than it can ever now feel.”
Hutchinson smiled sadly, and replied—
“It has been my object in life, Alfred Bernard, to supply the place of those nearer and dearer objects of affection which have been denied you. I hope in this I have not been unsuccessful.”
“I am aware, Mr. Hutchinson,” said Bernard, bitterly, “that to you I am indebted for my education and support. I hope I have ever manifested a becoming sense of gratitude, and I only regret that in this alone am I able to repay you.”
“And do you think that I wished to remind you of your dependence, Alfred? Oh, no—you owe me nothing. I have discharged towards you a solemn, a sacred duty, which you had a right to claim. I took you, a little homeless orphan, and sought to cultivate your mind and train your heart. In the first you have done more than justice to my tuition and my care. I am proud of the plant that I have reared. But how have you repaid me? You have imbibed sentiments and opinions abhorrent to all just and moral men. You have slighted my advice, and at times have even threatened the adviser.”
“If you refer to the difference in our faith,” said Bernard, “you must remember that it was from your teachings that I derived the warrant to follow the dictates of my conscience and my reason. If they have led me into error, you must charge it upon these monitors which God has given me. You cannot censure me.”
“I confess I am to blame,” said the good old man, with a sigh. “But who could have thought, that when, with my hard earnings, I had saved enough to send you to France, in order to give you a more extensive acquaintance with the world you were about to enter—who would have thought that it would result in your imbibing such errors as these! Oh, my son, what freedom of conscience is there in a faith like papacy, which binds your reason to the will of another? And what purity can there be in a religion which you dare not avow?”
“Naaman bowed in the house of Rimmon,” returned Bernard, carelessly, “and if the prophet forgave him for thus following the customs of his nation, that he might retain a profitable and dignified position, I surely may be forgiven, under a milder dispensation, for suppressing my real sentiments in order to secure office and preferment.”
“Alas!” murmured Hutchinson, bitterly. “Well, it is a sentiment worthy of Edward's son. But go, my poor boy, proud in your reason, which but leads you astray—wresting scripture in order to justify hypocrisy, and profaning religion with vice. You shall not yet want my prayers that you may be redeemed from error.”
“Well, good night,” said Bernard, as he opened the door. “But do me the justice to say, that though I may be deceitful, I can never be ungrateful, nor can I forget your kindness to a desolate orphan.” And so saying, he closed the door, and left the old chaplain to the solitude of his own stricken heart.
CHAPTER XX.
“Oh, tiger's heart, wrapt in a woman's hide.”
Henry VI.
Brightly shone the sun through the window of the Garter Inn, at which Virginia Temple sat on the morning after the ball at Sir William Berkeley's palace. Freed from the restraints of society, she gave her caged thoughts their freedom, and they flew with delight to Hansford. She reproved herself for the appearance of gaiety which she had assumed, while he was in so much danger; and she inwardly resolved that, not even to please her mother, would she be guilty again of such hypocrisy. She felt that she owed it to Hansford, to herself, and to others, to act thus. To Hansford, because his long and passionate love, and his unstained name, deserved a sacrifice of the world and its joys to him. To herself, because sad as were her reflections on the past, and fearful as were her apprehensions for the future, there was still a melancholy pleasure in dwelling on the memory of her love—far sweeter to her wounded heart than all the giddy gaiety of the world around her. And to others, because, but for her assumed cheerfulness, the feelings of Alfred Bernard, her generous and gifted friend, would have been spared the sore trial to which they had been subjected the night before. She was determined that another noble soul should not make shipwreck of its happiness, by anchoring its hopes on her own broken heart.
Such were her thoughts, as she leaned her head upon her hand and gazed out of the window at the throng of people who were hurrying toward the state-house. For this was to be a great day in legislation. The Indian Bill was to be up in committee, and the discussion would be an able one, in which the most prominent members of the Assembly were to take part. She had seen the Governor's carriage, with its gold and trappings, the Berkeley coat-of-arms, and its six richly caparisoned white horses, roll splendidly by, with an escort of guards, by which Sir William was on public occasions always attended. She had seen the Burgesses, with their reports, their petitions and their bills, some conversing carelessly and merrily as they passed, and others with thoughtful countenance bent upon the ground, cogitating on some favourite scheme for extricating the colony from its dangers. She had seen Alfred Bernard pass on his favourite horse, and he had turned his eyes to the window and gracefully saluted her; but in that brief moment she saw that the scenes through which he had passed the night before were still in his memory, and had made a deep impression on his heart. On the plea of a sick head-ache, she had declined to go with her mother to the “House,” and the good old lady had gone alone with her husband, deploring, as she went, the little interest which the young people of the present day took in the politics and prosperity of their country.
While thus silently absorbed in her own thoughts, the attention of Virginia Temple was arrested by the door of her room being opened, and on looking up, she saw before her the tall figure of a strange, wild looking woman, whom she had never seen before. This woman, despite the warmth of the weather, was wrapped in a coarse red shawl, which gave a striking and picturesque effect to her singular appearance. Her features were prominent and regular, and the face might have been considered handsome if it were not for the exceeding coarseness of her swarthy skin. Her jet-black hair, not even confined by a comb, was secured by a black riband behind, and passing over the right shoulder, fell in a heavy mass over her bosom. Her figure was tall and straight as an Indian's, and her bare brawny arms, which escaped from under her shawl, gave indications of great physical strength; while there was that in the expression of her fierce black eye, and her finely formed mouth, which showed that there was no mere woman's heart in that masculine form.
The wild appearance and attire of the woman inspired Virginia with terror at first, but she suppressed the scream which rose to her lips, and in an agitated voice, she asked,
“What would you have with me, madam?”
“What are you frightened at, girl,” said the woman in a shrill, coarse voice, “don't you see that I am a woman?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Virginia, trembling, “I am not frightened, ma'am.”
“You are frightened—I see you are,” returned her strange guest.—“But if you fear, you are not worthy to be the wife of a brave man—come, deny nothing—I can read you like a book—and easier, for it is but little that I know from books, except my Bible.”
“Are you a gipsey, ma'am?” said Virginia, softly, for she had heard her father speak of that singular race of vagrants, and the person and language of the stranger corresponded with the idea which she had formed of them.
“A gipsey! no, I am a Virginian—and a brave man's wife, as you would be—but that prejudice and fear keep you still in Egyptian bondage. The time has come for woman to act her part in the world—and for you, Virginia Temple, to act yours.”
“But what would you have me to do?” asked Virginia, surprised at the knowledge which the stranger seemed to possess of her history.
“Do!” shrieked the woman, “your duty—that which every human creature, man or woman, is bound before high heaven to do. Aid in the great work which God this day calls upon his Israel to do—to redeem his people from captivity and from the hand of those who smite us.”
“My good woman,” said Virginia, who now began to understand the character of the strange intruder, “it is not for me, may I add, it is not for our sex to mingle in contests like the present. We can but humbly pray that He who controls the affairs of this world, may direct in virtue and in wisdom, the hearts of both rulers and people.”
“And why should we only pray,” said the woman sternly, “when did Heaven ever answer prayer, except when our own actions carried the prayer into effect. Have you not learned, have you not known, hath it not been told you from the foundation of the world, that faith without works was dead.”
“But there is no part which a woman can consistently take in such a contest as the present, even should she so far forget her true duties as to wish to engage in it.”
“Girl, have you read your bible, or are you one of those children of the scarlet woman of Babylon, to whom the word of God is a closed book—to whom the waters from the fountain of truth can only come through the polluted lips of priests—as unclean birds feed their offspring. Do you not know that it was a woman, even Rahab, who saved the spies sent out from Shittem to view the land of promise? Do you not know that Miriam joined with the hosts of Israel in the triumph of their deliverance from the hand of Pharaoh? Do you not know that Deborah, the wife of Lapidoth, judged Israel, and delivered Jacob from the hands of Jabin, king of Canaan, and Sisera the captain of his host—and did not Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, rescue Israel from the hands of Sisera? Surely she fastened the nail in a sure place, and the wife of Sisera, tarried long ere his chariot should come—and shall we in these latter days of Israel be less bold than they? Tell me not of prayers, Virginia Temple, cowards alone pray blindly for assistance. It is the will of God that the brave should be often under Heaven, the answerers of their own prayers.”
“And pray tell me,” said Virginia, struck with the wild, biblical eloquence of the Puritan woman, “why you have thus come to me among so many of the damsels of Virginia, to urge me to engage in this enterprise.”
“Because I was sent. Because one of the captains of our host has sought the hand of Virginia Temple. Ah, blush, maiden, for the blush of shame well becomes one who has deserted her lover, because he has laid aside every weight, and pressed forward to the prize of his high calling. Yet a little while, and the brave men of Virginia will be here to show the malignant Berkeley, that the servant is not greater than his lord—that they who reared up this temple of his authority, can rase it to the ground and bury him in its ruins. I come from Thomas Hansford, to ask that you will under my guidance meet him where I shall appoint to-night.”
“This is most strange conduct on his part,” said Virginia, flushing with indignation, “nor will I believe him guilty of it. Why did he entrust a message like this to you instead of writing?”
“A warrior writes with his sword and in blood,” replied the woman. “Think you that they who wander in the wilderness, are provided with pen or ink to write soft words of love to silly maidens? But he foresaw that you would refuse, and he gave me a token—I fear a couplet from a carnal song.”
“What is it?” cried Virginia, anxiously.
“'I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more,'”
said the woman, in a low voice. “Thus the words run in my memory.”
“And it is indeed a true token,” said Virginia, “but once for all, I cannot consent to this singular request.”
“Decide not in haste, lest you repent at leisure,” returned the woman, “I will come to-night at ten o'clock to receive your final answer. And regret not, Virginia Temple, that your fate is thus linked with a brave man. The babe unborn will yet bless the rising in this country—and children shall rise up and call us blest.[36] And, oh! as you would prove worthy of him who loves you, abide not thou like Reuben among the sheep-folds to hear the bleating of the flocks, and you will yet live to rejoice that you have turned a willing ear to the words and the counsel of Sarah Drummond.”
There was a pause of some moments, during which Virginia was wrapt in her own reflections concerning the singular message of Hansford, rendered even more singular by the character and appearance of the messenger. Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the blast of a trumpet, and the distant trampling of horses' hoofs. Sarah Drummond also started at the sound, but not from the same cause, for she heard in that sound the blast of defiance—the trumpet of freedom, as its champions advanced to the charge.
“They come, they come,” she said, in her wild, shrill voice; “my Lord, my Lord, the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof—I go, like Miriam of old, to prophecy in their cause, and to swell their triumph. Farewell. Remember, at ten o'clock to-night I return for your final answer.”
With these words she burst from the room, and Virginia soon seen her tall form, with hasty strides, moving toward the place from which the sound proceeded.